Cold Heart
by JForward
Summary: Following COLD BLOOD  but can stand alone . Maybe things aren't quite back to normal after that eventful weekend. Transformation, NO SLASH. COMPLETE! Please review!
1. Chapter 1

COLD HEART

_This is the sequel to COLD BLOOD. Please read that to really understand what's happening in this _

They hadn't mentioned it to anyone. Of course not; no one would believe them even if they had. "Out of sight, out of mind." Sherlock had said to him, when he was recovered, but John just couldn't accept that Sherlock had disregarded the fiasco so quickly. The bruises on his arm had healed; no sign of any changes other than… the obvious. The next few days continued in normalcy for their household (Sherlock shooting the wall and being 'bored'), until the next week, when Sherlock received a call from Lestrade.

Shouting John down from where he'd been sat using his laptop, they got into a taxi and headed to the site in the early morning. Lestrade and the familiar luminescent policemen were wandering around the site of the body; a girl, down an alley, crumpled on her side. There was a gash in her neck, dried blood on the floor and spattered up her arms. "It makes no sense." Lestrade said, when he arrived. "We can't find a weapon. I'll let you do your thing." he backed off and Sherlock crouched, glancing at John.

"Tell me what you see." he said, crossing his arms and looking at the veteran. "What's happened here?" John licked his lips and then inspected. "Two injuries, the neck and the back of the head. Someone pushed her over then slit her neck, I guess. Mugging?" he looked up but Sherlock was shaking her head. "John, no. It's obvious. Blood on the wall; she was attacked standing up. Her neck was ripped open. The wound is too clean for a knife, and that wouldn't provide the spray; I'd say a dog, but there's bruising on her wrist and no scratch marks on her skin, and also, what dog would catch her like that."

He stood up, taking a breath. "She was dead before she hit the ground, probably from shock. The bruises on her wrist means she was manhandled, forced; but no sign of anything sexual, so not rape. None of her items have been taken, so it wasn't being robbed. She was a social worker, two kids, good husband. Not a target at all." John stared at him, overwhelmed as usual, as he digested what he'd been told.

"So … someone bit her neck open." bile rose at the thought of it he swallowed hard. "Cannibals?"

"No. No flesh eaten. And a cannibal wouldn't leave their victim out like this. If anything was taken, it was blood; there's not enough there." he shook his head and looked at John. "Nothing's happened like this before. So unless we have a vampire-" he looked amused "-We'll be looking for a man about the same height, so a short man, five sixish." Sherlock ignored John's _Hey! _of annoyance. "Probably Caucasian, because she would've seen him coming, probably someone she knew. Did she have a colleague?" he aimed this at Lestrade. "Social workers normally go out in pairs. No vehicle. So probably her co-worker." he turned to go. "Call me when you arrest him." he announced, and John trotted after him with usual why-did-you-even-bring-me face on.

They got into another taxi to go home when John voiced that very question. For a long moment, Sherlock didn't respond, and John sighed, aware that Sherlock only answered half the questions put to him. So when that deep voice sounded, he could not have been more surprised by what it said. "I'm worried, John. Concerned." he looked to see the slate gray eyes staring at him, intently. His voice was soft, so the cab driver couldn't here. "Ever since the… incident, I've felt as if it's in me." he tapped his chest gently and turned to look out the window. "I feel like I'm walking on eggshells."

John stared at him for a long, long moment. Sherlock was normally so… but normal had been discarded lately. "Not another big experiment, then?" he said, softly, but there was no mocking in his voice. Sherlock grimaced a little, turning to look at him. "No, not quite." he whispered softly. His hands rested on his lap and he continued looking out the window. "I don't feel safe going on my own." John stayed very quite, considering this until they were back. After fending off Mrs Hudson, they went back upstairs; but she followed them. As John went to make the tea, Mrs Hudson was 'tidying'. Sherlock told her to go away once. Twice. She wasn't listening. So he lost his temper.

"Would you please GO AWAY!" he yelled and Mrs Hudson recoiled in horror. "Your eyes went strange, Sherlock." she whispered. He rubbed his face and turned away, leaning against the mantlepiece. John apologised softly to her as she departed, then shut the door and turned to face him. He saw the way his arms were shaking against the wood. "Sherlock… are you okay?" he asked, very quietly. He waited; "I'm fine." he heard with relief that Sherlock's voice had strengthened, and, turning around, he looked normal, if a little shocked. They sat with their tea, and the detective begun to flick through some case notes on something else.

His phone rang. Flicking it out and answering, he drawled, "Lestrade, you really should learn to text." but then he listened. Glancing through the newspaper, John's head snapped up as Sherlock sat bolt upright, a slight smile dancing around his mouth. "Fantastic. Okay. We'll be there." he booped the phone off and turned to John. "They've found him. He killed himself." he informed John, "They want us to have a look at it." muttering something about abandoning his tea, they swept out the room again; John was truly beginning to feel exhausted by this time. Why had he not gotten a flatmate? Then again, as much as he contemplated this question he knew he'd never truly regretted it.

In the cab Sherlock looked excited, smiling a little bit; his feet were tapping on the floor. "Why are they calling you to look at an obvious suicide?" he asked him, staring. "It's not obvious, that's what." he told John, rolling his eyes. "He's slit his own throat, apparently. With a knife. They ran a DNA on his knife and the hand he was holding it in, and he did it, apparently. But - they found a blood lab there." the cab pulled out and John paid him. When they walked into the festering house they saw someone John had really hoped against. Anderson.

"What in the blood hell is HE doing here AGAIN!" he yelled. Lestrade gave him an annoyed look and looked at Sherlock. "Hello." "Where is it?" with a sigh, the DI led them to the little kit, and Sherlock looked - for once - impressed. "Her blood. Why in the hell would he want her blood?" he asked, utterly confused. Sherlock stared at the kit and then leant over, reaching out and taking up a petri dish. "Get your hands off the evidence!" Anderson stormed over.

The plastic dish landed where it had been picked up from as Sherlock whirled, baring his teeth with a hiss, reversing into John. The result was what Anderson saw lasted only a fraction of a moment, but John saw the canine teeth huge and draconic, the eyes changed, and recoiled slightly. "Sherlock, calm down!" he hissed, voice cracked, and a look of panic went into the grey. He put his head in his hands and spoke with amazing skill considering the teeth. "I am under a lot of _stress _right now, Anderson. Please don't interfere with things you don't know." he looked up again and John let out a breath of relief that his eyes were clear. "Because you don't know what might happen."


	2. Chapter 2

**Cold Heart - Chapter Two.**

_Okay, hi guys, author here. I realised after a review that the person was right - this story is following a very cliché pattern, the whole werewolf-style transforming under stress thing, but I assure you I do have a plot in mind. I lost the grip on my motivation, so please, any review on this will help me a great deal. Thank you._

They were in a taxi, zooming away from the crime scene, and Sherlock looked at John, fiddling with his phone as he spoke. "That blood was not normal blood. You could tell by the labels; the names. 'B1-CA.' Batch one, chemically altered. I have a feeling, John, that the woman who was murdered had been through chemical testing. Maybe her killer had, too." his eyes were slate, hard and cold, staring at his phone screen. John leant forward a little, staring at Sherlock. "Do you mean what I think you mean?" he asked, quietly.

"Obviously."

The taxi slid to a halt in front of the flat, and Sherlock stepped out, moving to the door, waiting for John to pay the cab driver; the house seemed quiet, and he knew Mrs Hudson must've been out. Sherlock was two paces ahead of him, focused still on his phone, apparently in the midst of a texted conversation. There was a tiny pause at the top of the stairs but John didn't see it, as Sherlock opened the door and stepped in. His eyes flickered up, and his lips formed a soft 'o' before a bullet smashed into him, the bang echoing loudly in the empty flat. He stumbled back, into the wall, as John tried desperately to put his mind in the moment - the person stood in the middle of the room, gun still trained and smoking, was surprisingly muscle bound, with gingery hair tied back, wearing a guns-n-roses tee.

That was all he had the chance to observe before the intruder was gone, leaping out the window. John ran, astonished they'd fitted through such a narrow gap, staring at the street and seeing - nothing, nothing at all. Trembling, the thought of something important nagged him for just a moment as he tried to recover from the shock, before a whispered "John…" caught his ears.

He was at Sherlock's side in a fraction of a second; his friend looked bleached white, breathing hard, his hand at - what John thought for a second with a horrible shudder was his neck. It wasn't; it was his left shoulder, but it was easy to see, even with the rapidly flowing blood, that the collarbone was most likely hit. "Shit. Shit." whispered John, fumbling for his mobile, tugging it out of his pocket and dialling 999 with shaking hands, swallowing furiously. He managed to stumble out half the request before the line went dead. He stared at his phone in shock and horror, as it went back to his innocent home-screen - then it began to ring, _Mycroft Holmes _flashing up on the screen.

"I don't see why you couldn't've done this a different way." John grumbled, in the back of a private ambulance with Mycroft sat next to him, umbrella pressed to the floor. Sherlock was strapped - yes, strapped - to a stretcher while private paramedics worked over him. He was awake and listening, blood smeared up his neck and chin, grey eyes irritated and mouth set in a hard line. The IV in the back of his hand was dripping special fluids into him, but he was looking more and more irritated by the moment. "This itches." he complained, for the fiftieth time, tugging at the drip line, but the nurse knew better than to ask if she could sedate him, though she clearly wanted to.

Mycroft seemed to consider the answer for a minute. "This was the easiest." he concluded, with a vague smile that just infuriated John. Right now he felt like punching Sherlock's brother, and not just because of his response; he was scared as all hell about what Sherlock's blood might show. He knew his friend needed to care, but when he'd heard that Mycroft didn't even know his blood type, that worry flared up hard at the syringe of chemically altered blood that had been taken by the nurse in order to find his blood type. They were then headed into a private hospital, Sherlock still astoundingly awake.

John followed behind, but Mycroft caught his arm as his friend was rushed off to try to fix his horrible injury. "I do know my brother's blood type." he commented, smirking a little, "But I wanted to know what he'd done to his blood. I am completely aware, Doctor Holmes, that he went and had some… _interesting_ blood tests." his smirk was gone into a look of utter distaste. "Sherlock has never been one for being smart, despite his intelligence. I do not know what the drugs have done, but it will not be long before I do. Good day." he turned and walked away and John stood for a moment before turning and going to find where his injured friend had been taken. This was very much not good.

He wondered if Mycroft knew what his brother had gone through, how long Sherlock would live.

Surely a dragon is a threat to national security?

He sat next to the bed; apparently it had taken triple the normal dose to take Sherlock out, and he had fought against it every step of the way. Now he was already coming out of the anaesthesia, and he shouldn't've been for another hour; John had overheard surgeons coming away, their surprised muttering - his bone had already started knitting and was locking itself back into place. The bullet had completely shattered his collarbone - this was supposed to be impossible. John swallowed hard. The tiny, very expensive hospital was quiet and clean; but he felt completely on edge, staring at his friend as the little slips of white visible under his flickering eyelids.

"What in the hell is happening, Sherlock?" he murmured, mostly to himself. "Somebody shoots you and runs. You're healing like a miracle. This shouldn't be _possible_!" he put his head in his hands, mentally adding, _'And you turned into a bloody great dragon recently.' _

The consulting detective's eyes opened properly and he blinked them into focus, looking at John. "It was him." he said, his throat scratchy. Before John could question him, he continued; "Another person. The tests. I wasn't expecting a gun." he coughed and John poured him water into a plastic cup, astonishing Sherlock as he helped him drink it. "I'm not listening until you drink." and so Sherlock drank. Settling back against the pillows, he spoke, his throat soothed. "There's a conspiracy to cover up what's happened to these people. I'm one of them." he said softly, and John watched, concerned. That was why he hadn't been shot, then. But… "They're not hiding witnesses." he realised, staring up at the wall as the implications of that washed over him in an icy wave.


	3. Chapter 3

COLD HEART - Chapter 3

_Hi guys! People keep saying they'll draw Dragon!Lock. Please do. I'll love you forever ! I'm Lemonade4Jessa on deviant art, by the way… okay here's the story._

_Thank you to everyone's who's given me advice; you're right, I need to research a little more…_

There was a click. A crunch. A scream. Body twisting, transforming, screaming, and then John was staring into the face of a monster rearing above him, blood dripping from it's teeth, with Sherlock's face somehow embedded into it… then John snapped awake, rolling over and out of the chair he was sleeping in. "Bad dream?" asked Sherlock; John glanced at the electric clock on the wall; the room was dimmed, and it was almost 6am. "Have you slept at all?" he asked Sherlock, who smirked. "I've been thinking." he answered, turning to look back at the wall.

John rubbed his eyes, trying to wake himself up, licking his lips. He looked at Sherlock's shoulder for something to do, examining the shattered clavicle very gently with his fingers. Sherlock winced but John was frowning, "Sherlock, this is… this is half healed." he said softly, "How long was I asleep?" Sherlock just beamed at him, widely, "It appears my healing ability seems to have been increased." he commented. John recoiled, sitting back in the chair. "Your brother's going to work this out, Sherlock."

The curly-haired detective gave a shrug. "I'll be out of here in a day. I need to find who's in charge of this whole murder operation." he licked his teeth. "It might be the scientists responsible for the drug, but I think not." he sat up, slowly, straightening, ignoring the objections rising from John. "I'm going to sign myself out. Let's go."

"Sherlock, _NO!__"_John reached up and tried to push him down but Sherlock, for all his thinness, was shockingly strong. "I'm going, John." he said, and there was a chilling quality to his voice. "I have a bad feeling about this place." The blogger felt a faint chill at those words and sighed. "Sit down." he insisted, "I'll go get you the form." he returned with a nurse and a clipboard a few minutes later, perching on the side of the bed as she read out the disclaimer and Sherlock twitched impatiently, snatching up the pen and signing it before they left, him walking and the nurse astonished. It wasn't a surprising, then, that as they walked down the street - Sherlock in the figure-of-eight bandage and with a warning about moving his arm - that a sleek black car pulled up beside them.

With a resigned sigh, John opened the door, waiting for Sherlock to shuffle in before getting in himself. There was no staff member there as they were swept off; the car slid to a stop out of a pretty restaurant, and John found himself frowning in wonder; but squinting through the double glass layer, he could see Mycroft sat a table with a drink in front of him. Once again, he opened the door and waited for Sherlock to get out, knowing his friend wouldn't accept any help getting out onto the street. Then he headed into the café, moving to sit opposite Mycroft, Sherlock slipping down into the seat. Two cups of tea materialized in front of them and then the staff member vanished.

John took a sip of the liquid, noting that Sherlock hadn't moved from his seat, staring at his brother, and that Mycroft wasn't drinking his own tea. He placed his mug down with a hard click. "Alright. Cut to the chase." Mycroft had that awful smug smile on his face which so infuriated John.

"What have you done, Sherly?" the pet name made Sherlock stiffen angrily. "You have healed like a miracle. Your blood makes no sense; it fights analysis. Literally. The needles used on it burn away within hours, like it's acidic." John's mind flickered onto the kit on the dead man's desk; none of that had been burnt.

Sherlock smirked back at his brother. "Maybe it doesn't want you to know." he said, darkly, and glanced at his tea, not touching it. Feeling uncomfortable in the moment, John stirred his tea as the two brothers faced off, aggression hinted at by their posture. After a minute or two it got to him, and he sat back, both sets of eyes swivelling to look at him; "Do you have anything else to say, Mycroft?" he asked, irritably. That irritating smirk spread again. "May I have a word alone with my brother?" John got to his feet, angrily, and went into the bathroom, taking his time.

When he returned, Sherlock was on his feet, but rather than angry he looked scared - and the look on Mycroft's face was alarming, "Let's go, John." Sherlock swept out of the door and John had to hurry to catch up. Hailing a taxi, the detective was speaking as they got in. "He knew what to do. He pushed me, made me angry. So he saw." John let out a long whistle, uncertain what to think. The taxi fell into uneasy silence as they headed toward Baker street; he felt tired, his short sleep hardly enough. He could feel the slate blue eyes fixed on him, but continued staring out the window, wondering where all this would lead.

Mrs Hudson greeted them with pleasure, giving Sherlock a careful hug, which he returned, looking very pleased to see the kind-hearted woman. John also accepted a hug, the three of them heading up to the room, John insisting on going first while Sherlock rolled his eyes. There was no gunshot. The flat was safe, and John puttered about, unable to help his eyes keep returning to that smear of blood near the doorway. When they'd managed to get rid of Mrs Hudson, and drunk a cup of tea, he made his excuses and fell into bed, asleep in moments.


	4. Chapter 4

Cold Heart - Chapter Four.

_Please forgive my awful attempts at working how Sherlock does!_

He awoke to warm sunlight on his face, rolling over with a groan and rubbing at his eyes just before he fell off the sofa and landed on the floor, flailing around in something tangling his arms before he realised exactly what had happened. The quilt on him was his own; Mrs Hudson must've put it on him. Running a hand through his scruffy hair, he licking his teeth, mouth feeling uncomfortably sticky. His vision was more blue than it had been before, a hint of ultraviolet, but he found he actually rather liked that effect on what he saw, making things easier.

There was a note on the table. He reached out and put his fingertips against the cup of tea; warm. Moving the tea to pick up the post-it, he read that John had gone out, then stuck it carefully back into place, picking up his quilt and taking it to his room before having a shower. Once dressed in the dark purple shirt and his normal suit, he picked up his phone; no new messages. Sighing, Sherlock went to the fridge and looked in it. A bag of eyeballs in the bottom tray, obviously not edible, eggs… he closed the fridge. He wasn't hungry, anyway.

Scooping up his violin, he stood in the window, starting to play, carefully, moving the bow so slowly he almost couldn't hear the sounds. He began to think as he stood there, mind moving through intense circles, no longer analysing everyone walking past… lowering the violin, tenderly placing it back into it's stand, he sat and sunk into his mind palace.

_ Images:_

_Attendees - individual rooms._

_Woman - Murdered, 2x Blonde Women - cocaine addict, homeless & flat owner, two small dogs and a cat._

_Brown haired man -_

_Scientists. Prep. Drugs. Excitement. Worried man._

_Workers._

If John had seen him, he would've said - "You just got it, didn't you?" Sherlock suddenly realised that the light had changed and John was sat opposite him with a half-drunk cup of tea. "Welcome back to the real world." straightening, Sherlock glanced at the clock. Three hours. Oops. "Yes." he responded in his deep baritone, "The man who cut his own throat was a scientist. I saw him." he got up and grabbed his coat, "Come on, John!" he wasn't aware of the Doctor until he was running down the street, coat flapping behind him, hailing a taxi and diving in. Naming a street, he turned to look at John, "I know where they're going to strike next." John was giving him that look of open amazement.

"I saw the woman he murdered, but the information hadn't been important." John looked bemused,

"You didn't delete it? No, let me guess - it was in your recycle bin?"

"Essentially." the taxi rumbled on, "I saw the scientist. He looked on edge. I heard him attempt to talk the others out of it. The man who was her 'associate' was merely an undercover hitman." he frowned, considering.

"You said her throat was _bitten _out, Sherlock."

"Yes, it was."

They pulled up outside a block of flats, and Sherlock stepped out first. It was then that John clicked that he wasn't wearing his bandage at all. There was no exclamation but he sensed Sherlock's shock as John gently felt his shoulder. "Completely fixed." Astonishment coloured his tone, and Sherlock just grinned in response, moving and pressing a buzzer. Flat 13. Ominous.

"Who dat?" a chav voice came through the speaker, and once more Sherlock adopted that amazing acting ability. "Hello, this is a routine gas check, I apologise that we have to take a random check and you've been selected. Please could you buzz me and my colleague in." there was a pause, a chavvish noise that supposedly meant agreement, and the door opened. With a grin at John, Sherlock headed upstairs, the doctor on his heels.

The two women were how Sherlock recognised them, if a little greasier. He got in, pretended to check the gas mains, and left John awkwardly in the little 'main room'.

"So." he said, looking at the uncomfortable women. The animals stared at him, and he felt slightly uncomfortable as well. "Sorry for my colleague. He takes a lot of care in his work. Um, have you… been anywhere nice recently?" no response. Alright. He was about to ask some more questions to try to get to the tests when Sherlock called him out of the room, into the bathroom.

"Look at this." indicating spots of blood around the sink. John frowned. "Maybe it started happening in here." he was inspecting the lotions and other things. The doorbell went and he heard the two ladies going to deal with it. Then there was two gunshots, and they shared a fraction of a second before dashing into the main room. The women were dead, holes in their heads; feeling sick, John didn't have time to rest on it as Sherlock was whipping out of the door after their assailant. Pursuing his friend, his heart pounded as it had chasing the Golem.

"Sherlock!" he shouted, panting, receiving a "Keep up!" from up ahead. Forcing himself along he caught a hint of a black leather jacket, a ducked head with dark glasses, but slim and nervous and tiring quickly. _Not used to this. _Then he heard Sherlock's cry before he saw what had caused it; the man had jumped. This block of flats was one of the big square blocks, with a little square in the middle and an unhealthy looking tree. Right now the air was filled with a horrifying amount of falling gunman. "No!" Sherlock yelled again, leaning over the edge, staring. The body hit the ground with a sickening crunch and John stepped back, sliding down the wall and putting his knees up, arms on the caps, closing his eyes as he put his head in his hands.

A moment later he felt Sherlock seat himself, and forced his eyes, looking up at the cold steel gaze of the detective. "I've called Lestrade." he was informed in an almost emotionless tone. "We need to disappear." after a moment, John forced himself up to his feet, and the pair left the block of flats, John still in a state of shock.


	5. Chapter 5

Cold Blood - Chapter Five

_Oooh isn't it getting exciting now!_

John felt sick as they sped away from the crime scene in a taxi, having managed to flag one just before the police got there. Lestrade didn't want them connected, but Sherlock had not said much to John. At Baker Street, he informed John he was going for a walk - to find something out - and for him to stay there and to _write a blog post. _John had stared in shock, and Sherlock had smirked slightly at the reaction. "Don't be specific. Just make sure to mention drug testing and my investigating. I need to go to the head of this." and then he was gone.

Mycroft hadn't been in touch. He hadn't known what to do when it happened; Sherlock had come in just as he posted the blog and sat back with a cup of tea. "What are you doing with those eyeballs-" the words died in his throat as he took in the state of Sherlock. He may not be a genius, but he could tell straight away, his own doctor's deduction; red eyes, a slight stagger and hyperactivity, and the most telling, the slightest smudge of white under his nose. "Hi John." he announced, moving over to the window and peeking out, once, twice, again. He picked up the violin and put it down again.

John felt a wave of anger in him and slipped out his phone, considering texting Mycroft, but then thought better. A mutant on drugs. Not a good thought. Hoping like hell that Sherlock would stay on a happy high, he drained his tea and went into the kitchen to make himself a much stronger coffee. Whatever happened, he had to keep control of Sherlock. While he was waiting for the kettle to boil, though, he heard a low groan and a crash, rocketing into the other room. Sherlock was on the floor, clutching the sides of his face in apparent pain. "John…" hearing his name spoken with such tenderness and pain made his heart pound as he crouched next to the idiotic genius.

"Sherlock, it's alright. You just need to wait for it to fade, and it-"

"No!" sweat ran down Sherlock's face, making the pale skin strangely flush, and that was when John noticed the eyes. There came a crunch. His teeth had extended, a clunk from his cheekbones announcing that his jaw was changing shape. Trembling, John tried to calm him down, hoping to hell this was all an awful nightmare. Gasping for air, his face seemed trapped in a half-muzzle, the slitted eyes flickering around with all Sherlock's usual observational skill. His rounded ears twitched, poking from his hair. Blood was dripping on his fingertips and John swallowed convulsively. "Fight it, Sherlock." he whispered, smoothing some of the curls away from the sweating flesh.

Sherlock dug his nails into his scalp, whimpering faintly, eyes screwing up as he panted. "Hang on, hang on…" John whispered, unaware of anything but his tripping friend. It was as if the shift had caught at this point, little trickles of blood from his nails running down his face. Eyes fixed onto John's face, dilating from huge to narrow, nostrils flaring. For all his doctor's training, he wasn't quite sure what to do, but he thought no doctor would understand what to do when faced with this. The sweat was dripping from Sherlock's snout, and trembles ran through the body, but John realised that his talking was seeming to help. He kept talking like he would to a frightened animal, soothing word-noises, rambles, anything, and gradually the bones cracked back into place, returning to normal, and Sherlock lay on his side, panting and trembling.

"You stupid, stupid idiot." John murmured, helping move Sherlock on to the sofa, laying him down and going to get a damp flannel. Towelling his friend's head, he hadn't heard the door or the talking from downstairs with his focus. The knock caught him off-guard, but the door was still slightly ajar from where Sherlock had swaggered in. Mrs Hudson's nervous face appeared, and he stood, stepping in front of Sherlock to draw the attention away. "Yes?" he asked, and had to fight a look of shock as she announced they had a visitor, and Lestrade stepped inside. "Inspector." he said, astonished, and noticed the nervous smile on the grey-haired man's face. "What-what- what're you doing here?"

"Sherlock called me." he informed John, with a tight smile. "About what happened at the flats." biting back a groan, John glanced over at Sherlock, who still had the rag on his head and was staring blankly at the ceiling. At least he was human now. "Yes, well. We were in the bathroom, heard gunshots; the girls were shot, dead, nothing we could do, and the shooter jumped." he swallowed hard a few times. Lestrade frowned. "The issue is, John…" he sat down, tactfully ignoring the sofa full of Sherlock. "There was no body. All we have are two girls shot, and … that you two were there." John stiffened.

"There was no way he could've survived that fall." John said, softly. "I saw him! I saw him die!" he covered his eyes and swallowed hard. Lestrade was frowning, now. "John. Why were you there?" without thinking, John turned to glance at Sherlock, who appeared to be memorising the swirling patterns in the ceiling plaster. Lestrade followed his eyeline and groaned. "So." he commented, a hard edge to his voice, "You two see two women shot, and the sociopath gets high?" the hard edge seemed to become bitter. "You're not helping your case here, John. Sherlock doesn't care about _people. _He wouldn't do that because of-" "If you had any idea." Lestrade had never heard John speak like that. It cut him off and he felt himself freeze.

"If you had any _goddamned _idea what he has gone through lately - it's not about them, Lestrade. He's lost the chance to find out why they were shot, talk to that man." he swallowed, pain starting to edge into his anger. "It's not about people. Not with him. The selfish, SELFISH bastard!" he turned and went into the kitchen, leaning on the edge of the counter, breathing hard. His coffee set-up still sat there, the water only lukewarm now. Lestrade paused, glanced at Sherlock on the sofa, then left the flat, planning to talk to Sherlock when he was normal again, however long that took.

So he didn't see Sherlock's eyes follow him out of the room.


	6. Chapter 6

COLD HEART - Chapter Six.

_Woo! Look! Plot, lots of plot! Also dying people._

_Hope you're enjoying it. Feel free to guess in the reviews ;)_

John came into the sitting room when he was sure Lestrade wouldn't return, clutching his coffee, and saw Sherlock sitting up, holding the damp rag. "Woah woah woah, what are you doing?" he asked, putting down the coffee and pushing Sherlock back down. "Why is there a flannel on my head, John?"  
>"To cool you down. Y'know, while you were <em>high!<em>" Sherlock could forgive the anger and disappointment in his friend's voice, but in his mind he was annoyed. "It was an experiment, John!"

"Oh yeah, sure it was, Sherlock."

"Obviously."

John sat down and hugged his coffee, cupping it with his hands, staring into it. He stirred it again, seeing the little eddies and vortexes formed on the surface by the movement, like a tiny universe of foam. Sherlock stood up and this time John didn't move to stop him as he began to pace. "The experiment confirmed what I believed. Drugs move through my system a lot faster now I have this new condition." John glanced up, unable to help himself. "You heard what Lestrade said. What do you think happened to him?"

"He fell."

"Obviously, John. But what happened to him then?"

"He was dead. No one… no one could survive that. Someone must've taken the body."

Sherlock was shaking his head and giving him that you-aren't-stupid look, which more than annoyed John at that moment. "Fine, genius. Tell me."

"It's obvious, John! That man was a scientist. Removing the experiments. Not because they failed - but because they _succeeded. _He jumped, but that wasn't a suicide; you saw the way he landed, John!" by now John was staring at Sherlock in open admiration, forgetting his annoyance.

"So he must've-"

"Yes. The scientists must've tested themselves, before or after, I don't know." he frowned. "I'd assume after, as they wouldn't be killing people otherwise. He knew where to shoot; most people aim for the heart. He shot them in the head." Sherlock shook his head, "He started healing, and got away."

"But those flats only had one doorway."

"I didn't say he left on foot, John."

John stared back into the coffee, his head reeling at what Sherlock was telling him.

"So." they were strolling down the street, side by side, ignoring the taxis moving by; John had insisted on the short walk, feeling Sherlock needed something that was not a case to get him out of the house, and to his shock Sherlock had actually agreed. He was definitely not convinced by Sherlock's insistence that the drug had been an experiment; he knew the consulting detective well enough to understand that much at least.

"The scientists run these tests for money. A new drug." Sherlock nodded, "It seems successful so all - or a few - of them test it on themselves. Then they transform themselves, realise what's happened, and go to take out the people who have the same condition." he frowned, ignoring Sherlock's interested stare, "One of them commits suicide after testing one of the murders' blood? An attack of conscience? And another kills those two women and throws himself off the block. So he either knows that he'll live - or doesn't care if he dies." Sherlock was smirking slightly. John fell silent, knowing what a long speech this was for him.

"Mostly, I agree, John." he responded. John hid his pleased expression behind one of surprise. "However. The man who slit his own throat." Sherlock looked up at some geese flying overhead, as if not seeing them. "I don't think he killed her deliberately. More likely he was reassigned by a higher group of scientists - maybe they knew what they were doing - and goaded into a partial transformation. He took her blood to make himself feel better about what was happening, try to find a cure. He probably transformed again, so slit his neck. He bled out too quickly to heal. Probably took an anti-coagulant beforehand." Sherlock slipped his phone out of his pocket, rattled out a text, then tucked it away again.

"So." John ignored the phone. He was used to that sort of thing by now. He was also aware he was repeating himself. "We have a group of scientists operating higher than the two… field agents we've seen." Sherlock nodded once more. "I know where they'll be going next." he said, once more, and John felt a jump of regret in his throat. The last time he'd heard those words, he'd seen two women shot through the head. He hoped to all hell that this one would be different.

Sherlock explained in the taxi. "There were five of us. The social worker, the two women we saw earlier, and one other man. Totally ordinary. Probably holding down two jobs to support an illegitimate child. Extra money, mundane tests - if it all went wrong he could push a lawsuit." he shrugged a little, and John frowned, staring out the window. "Sherlock, how do you know all these addres-"

"I can read upside down."

"Obviously." John retorted, frowning, and didn't see the smirk that Sherlock adopted.

They pulled up outside a small, single-person house; John looked at it. It was small, but pretty looking, well-cared for he guessed; a gravel drive. No flowers or bushes, though, so no women here. Sherlock was right. Striding up, he rang the doorbell, and the door swung open. The man there looked unkempt, tired; circles under his arms, wearing a tatty tee and jeans, no shoes or socks, and a rather scary gun pointing at Sherlock's chest. He and John took a step back, holding up their hands.

"I'm not with the scientists." Sherlock said, after a long moment. "I'm like you." his voice was low, and sad, and John could tell he wasn't acting. "This is my … assistant, John Watson. He understands." the man looked around, peering out the door, then gestured them in. He locked the door behind them, and indicated them into the lounge, where they both perched on the edge of a nice enough sofa. The house was nice, well-kept. There was an image of a teenage girl on the mantlepiece over an electric fire.

The man looked between them for a few minutes and then put the gun down on the table, as a peaceful sign. "You know they're coming for you." Sherlock said, staring at him, as if the placing of the gun was a signal to talk. "You worked it out too." the man stared at them, fear in his eyes. "It hurt so much." he whispered. "I haven't been to work since it happened. But I couldn't - my daughter. Her mother can't afford her. I can't let them kill me." tears tracked down his face and Sherlock tried to hide his disgust, although John could see it.

"Um, would you like a cup of tea?" he rubbed his eyes and John nodded quickly. Sherlock did too, after a moment. He leant back as the man went into the kitchen, looking at John. "It'll be me or him next. I assume that the scientist attempting to neutralize me again will be after me last, as I've gotten through them once." he smirked slightly. "They won't stop until I'm down. These are men of science, John!" but John looked worried.

"You don't think… this could be Moriarty?"

"No, I doubt it. This is something different, John."

There was a clink of a spoon in a mug, and a loud crack at the same time as a bang, and a cry of pain. John's eyes widened. "No!" they dived into the corridor. A bullet between the eyes, and a shattered pane of glass. In a moment Sherlock was out of the house, staring at the rooftops. "Angle of the shot, John! Aimed for the middle of the forehead - there!" and so there was, a sniper running across the rooftops. Sherlock took off and John was left to keep up as best he could, heart pounding, tears in his eyes. _They won't stop until I'm down._

_ The last loose end._


	7. Chapter 7

COLD BLOOD - Chapter Seven.

_Hi guys. Yeah, rapid updates, I know! I'm in a writin' mood today. Better than Uni work at least :P_

John's heart was pounding in his throat as he tried to keep up with the skinny detective, but he had no idea of how Sherlock was feeling. It was like the cocaine high all over again; his whole body was shaking, but with power, his mind burning like his body. He could see the man as he moved through heat, not sure how he was doing it, moving faster than he ever had before. Up a ladder on the side of a flat, three at a time, feeling almost lighter than air. Onto the top, bounding after the man who didn't even have a jacket. He knew that they were near the testing centre.

His eyes stung and watered so he slid a clear film over them. His hands were aching but he didn't notice it. His legs felt like they were different, strange, more wiry and tightly wound, like springs in his ankles. John had fallen far behind by now as he jumped over the gap between buildings as if it was nothing. The man glanced back at him, fear in his gaze, and dropped onto all fours, and, without thinking, Sherlock mimicked him, pushing the changes in his body to himself more power.

The pain was nothing compared to the speed. He wasn't aware of John shouting his name, far behind, as he cleared another gap, losing his shoes. His toes spread, gripping the air, and he landed, onto back legs for a moment to slip out of his coat, unconsciously, so it wasn't ruined. Another building cleared and he was running out, gaining on the heavier scientist but not as far into his transformation. His clothing ripped away, and he felt muscles spawn into being, his face pushed out into it's muzzle, skin cracking and scales forming. His tail whipped behind him, keeping him in balance, and he let out a low roar. Then the man in front - the dragon in front - jumped.

Sherlock caught up a fraction of a second later, on the edge of the housing, the dark green creature ahead of him already soaring, beating hugely powerful wings. Sherlock jumped as well, feeling his wings unfold automatically, spreading wide, wider than he'd realised, and then he was jerked up. The feeling was amazing, like - _like flying. _He let out another roar, instincts that chemicals had provided clicking into being. Beat - beat - beat. Up, high, higher, each powerful stroke throwing him forward several meters, like rowing. He tucked his feet in close to his sleek, powerful body.

He relied on his tail more than he'd expected, using it to control himself, and for a moment delighted in the feeling before focusing on the job. The gun-man. _Gun-dragon. _He wondered about his phone - the man's gun - left behind on that rooftop somewhere? But no, they hadn't found clothes where the other hitman had been, had they. He moved harder, faster, powering toward the shape ahead. He was faster. The next second he was above and without a thought dropped onto the green shape, wrapping his paws over the shoulders, folding the other dragon's wings in as he tucked his own, forcing them both to drop.

John had felt like he was choking as he watched his friend transform as he ran. He couldn't keep up, thanking god that the gaps between the flats were just - _just - _narrow enough for him to jump with that adrenaline powering through his body. "SHERLOCK!" he screamed, seeing him throw off the coat far ahead. He was running for as long as he could, but panting and trembling, a stitch in his chest. He slowed to watch his friend take flight, and felt his own heart soar for a moment. It was amazing to watch, the light shimmering of the patches of red and gold on that reptile body.

Then they disappeared into cloud cover. Not sure what to do, he scooped up all the scraps of clothing that they had left behind - both men - and Sherlock's coat. No sign of the gunman's gun, though. Lost, John stared into the sky for a while, wondering if Sherlock would ever want to come back now he'd been flying. Swallowing back the lump in his throat, he climbed carefully down one of the ladders, and walked until he managed to find a taxi, finally heading home, still clutching Sherlock's coat to his chest.


	8. Chapter 8

COLD HEART - Chapter Eight

_Hi guys. Looks like I accidentally saved over chapter eight, so this is a rewrite… o_o I have no idea how I did that. If you saw Chapter Nine as Chapter Eight I'm sorry._

Sherlock was powering through the air, his body feeling utterly alive, every muscle and sinew aware of what was happening. He fixed his eyes on that shape ahead on him, and pushed harder, faster, rocketing through the air, each beat throwing him forward. He was faster than the scientist, and was soon flying above him, panting as he kept speed, then dropped, locking his back paws onto the other's hips, digging his claws in, and his front hand-paws gripping the shoulder joint, forcing the wings to shut. His black talons, deadly curved, dug just under the edge of the smooth green scales in order to keep the grip, resulting in a roar of pain from the squirming dragon below.

Then he folded his own wings, allowing them to start plummeting, twisting so they were head first. He couldn't speak like this, not properly, and definitely not in the air; he let out a roar, seeing the gun clutched in the beast's left hand. Then he felt a little tickle of contact against his brain and realised that he was being spoken to telepathically.

_Let go of me! You'll kill us both! _the scientist's angry and terrified roar rolling through his brain, and he responded with a snarl, digging his nails deeper.

_Tell me who sent you! Why are you doing this?_

_ I can't! I can't say! They'll kill them, they-_

_ Who will kill who?_

_ My family! I know they'll kill me anyway, when they others are dead, but I have to protect my family!_

Sherlock let out a roar of rage, and kicked his back legs away, still gripping with his front. His anger got control of him and he kicked with his rear legs, tearing ragged holes into the other monster's wings, hearing the keen of agony from below and not caring. In one move he swung his neck, head turning with shocking flexibility, digging the deadly teeth into the scientist's neck, and tugged. Feeling a bucking twist he released the green form, spitting out a chunk of flesh, but the other was already dead. The gunman went flying through the sky, blood pouring as it morphed back to a human.

Snapping his wings wide, feeling the violent tug that made his muscles ache, Sherlock beat hard, powering himself out of sight range of the people of London, panting. When he felt he could breathe properly again he let out a roar of frustration, then began to glide, looking for 221. He knew it would be risky, landing; but all he was aware of was pain in his muscles, exhaustion coating him like a second skin, and hunger; something he was definitely not used to. Eventually, he spotted the building, and began to glide lower, considering what would be best to do. He couldn't risk a dragon being seen in the skies, let alone landing on a house, so he thought a few minutes, brilliant mind coming up with the perfect solution.

He positioned himself exactly right in the air, tilting wings perfectly and then folding them tight, diving hard, as he started the change. He hung onto his wings for as long as possible before they too folded away into oblivion and he landed, hard, on the flat roof, both his ankles and knees giving a painful _crunch _as he landed. They were damaged, but not broken, he could tell. Carefully, he crawled to the edge of the building, peeking over the edge. No one had spotted him, except, maybe, a little child pointing at the roof and being tugged along by an impatient mother. Then he saw a taxi come to a stop in front of the house.

John stepped out, clutching Sherlock's coat; turning to talk to the driver through the window. Feeling his ankles fix themselves, Sherlock got up and rushed to the door, realising he was naked at the same time as a rush of thankfulness rolled over him that they both had a flat roof and that Mrs Hudson left to the door to it unlocked. He headed in, past the stairs to John's room, and down into their flat, into the bathroom, shutting the door. He heard John coming up the stairs as he stepped into the shower, still spitting blood out, which made him feel a little sick.

He began to wash, hearing John come in, obviously not noticing the shower noise. Sherlock closed his eyes, listening closely, his hearing seeming sharper than ever. There was the sound of him sitting on a chair, and then… was that crying? Sherlock switched off the shower and stepped out, wrapping a towel around his waist and glancing at himself in the mirror. No signs of blood. Good. Then he walked out of the bathroom.

John turned to stare at him with wide eyes, still holding his coat. "Sherlock." he whispered, and dropped his coat on the floor. In three strides he reached the detective and punched him hard enough that Sherlock fell backwards onto the floor, staring at the ceiling in astonishment. "You _bastard!_" John snarled at him, as Sherlock tried to sit up. John was staring at him with a look of absolute fury. "How the hell could you do that to me? I thought you'd die! I have no idea what was happening!"

John turned away and rubbed his eyes, which were red from crying. "What the hell was I meant to think, Sherlock! You turn into a, a fucking _MONSTER _and go flying off, and-" John stumbled off in his rage, turning to see Sherlock stood there, completely still, body obviously stiff. Then he turned and strode into his room, slamming the door behind him, leaving John feeling utterly ice cold in the middle of the room, staring after the friend he'd just called a monster.


	9. Chapter 9

COLD HEART - Chapter Nine

John was sitting outside Sherlock's room, listening to his friend pace around inside, hating himself for what he'd said. "Sherlock, I'm sorry." he said, for what felt like the fiftieth time; but there was no response, just a soft thud as if he'd hit the wall again, then a clunk as if the framed periodic table had fallen from the wall. Sherlock had blocked the door shut with something, and John couldn't get it open, much to his frustration. "Sherlock, come on! You know I didn't mean it like that!" he rubbed his eyes, still listening, very glad that he still had Sherlock's gun in the coat. Then there came a ding and he moved away, picking up the blackberry from the side.

_We found another one. Shot through his kitchen window, door left open. Any ideas? - GL_

John felt his throat go dry and swallowed a few times convulsively, not sure what to do. "I'm going to speak to Lestrade, Sherlock. What- what should I tell him about the gunman?" he listened, waiting, and then heard the sound of something heavy being moved away from the door. Sherlock strode out, wearing his pyjama bottoms and no shirt, hair still damp. He didn't have red eyes, like John had expected; he hadn't been crying, but he was clearly furious.

He snatched the phone out of John's hand without a word and dialled, pressing it to his ear. "Lestrade, don't talk. The gunman is dead. He was a scientist for a small lab, in the east of London." he waited through a pause, his frown deepening. "He's dead. I'm not sure where he landed, but he fell from a great height after being mauled by a very large dog. I'm not sure where that got to either. No, Lestrade. No." he clicked the phone off and threw it onto the chair, before throwing himself on his back on the sofa.

John just stared at him for a few long moments, then rubbed his own eyes, which _had_ reddened. "Okay. I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I don't know what else I can say to you." he walked into the kitchen, and then Mrs Hudson appeared, glancing at Sherlock and then walking in to the kitchen looked at John, "Oh darling." she said, flicking on the kettle, "What's wrong? Case too easy?" she asked, getting out two mugs and starting to prepare the tea. John shook his head, not wanting to tell her anything about the case, fighting away the tears that this thoughtless man had induced.

"Thank you." he whispered, taking the hot drink.

"Remember, I'm not your housekeeper." she said it gently, automatically. He nodded, silently, sipping the scolding drink. She looked at him for a few long moments before taking the cup of tea in and looking at Sherlock, placing the cup down with a click. "Come on, young man. Get up." she frowned and crossed her arms, "Don't you start shooting my wall again!" Sherlock rolled over and stared up at her.

"I killed somebody, Mrs. Hudson." his voice was dark.

"Oh well, things happen." she shrugged. "Time to move on, young man." he stared at her for a few long moments, then looked away, back into the sofa.

Mrs. Hudson came over to John again, putting her hand on his arm. "He'll be okay." she said softly, then thankfully disappeared. John took his tea and went to sit in his chair, removing the phone and placing it gently on the table.

"So." he said, after a long moment. "You … you killed someone. The scientist?"

Sherlock maintained his stony silence and John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I don't think you're a monster." he said softly. "You can't help what happened to you, Sherlock." he stared into his tea. The next moment Sherlock was on his feet, pacing side to side, and John leant back. "I chased him through the sky. I was faster, grabbed him from above. He talked to me in my head. I lost my temper and bit his throat out. He turned back as I dropped him." he paused, staring into the mirror and swallowing, staring at himself, running his hands through his curly hair. "Why do I feel like this." he said, coldly, clenching his jaw. "I'm not meant to feel bad."

"Sherlock, you _killed _someone. Without a weapon. Of course you feel bad. That's human!"

"I'm not supposed to be human like you." he said, rubbing his eyes, now red-rimmed.

"There's nothing wrong with that." John replied, astonished.

Sherlock let out a low, annoyed noise, rubbing his face violently. He turned to John. "I need to try an experiment." he announced, and John put his tea down with a click, about to speak when Sherlock cut him off. "I transformed from watching the scientist. Or because I was running. He must've willed his own, so I have to be able to do my own…" John was shaking his head, standing up.

"Go to bed, Sherlock." he ordered, and Sherlock pouted. "Go to bed."

"I'm hungry." John almost did a double take at that. He opened his mouth in shock but shook it off. "Fine. Make yourself a sandwich then go to bed." Sherlock kept staring at him, wide eyed, and he groaned. "Fine! I'll make you a sandwich." he walked into the kitchen and grumbled about, making it, as Sherlock flopped on the sofa, staring at the ceiling again. He really was genuinely hungry, and his mind had started to tail off, not quite as sharp as it could be - though a lot sharper than the dull minds he was constantly surrounded by.

He ate the cheese and ham sandwich, analysing everything in it, the pickle down to the bread, unable to stop himself. His mind just did it without any planning. John sat there, watching his every move, clearly on edge; then when he finished, John gave him a look, and Sherlock smirked at him. "You're going to bed now?"

"Obviously."

John watched him go with a sigh, listening past the bathroom noise until he heard Sherlock get into bed. Then he tidied the lounge, switched the light off, and went to lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to work out everything that had happened that day.

_Please review!_


	10. Chapter 10

COLD HEART - Chapter Ten

Sherlock woke up to the sound of John moving around the flat, and laid staring at the ceiling in the light filtering through his curtains. He stared up at the ceiling and waited until the sound of the door announced John's departure from the flat before he got up. Once he'd showered and finished with his annoying human needs, he dressed in one of his smarter suits, but with a cheaper shirt on underneath, leaving his feet bare. Once he considered himself presentable he went into the lounge, scooping up his phone from the table. No messages or missed calls. Placing it carefully back on the table, he sat down, staring at the window and waiting.

And waiting…

And…. Waiting…

Sherlock was bored within an hour. The only person he had any true patience with was John and right now it was telling. He got to his feet, pacing around, then scooped up his violin and began to play, carefully strumming the bow over the strings, working down the melody he'd been developing for a while now, but he kept getting distracted, staring out the window. Eventually he gave up, placing the violin down and flopping back onto the sofa. He began trying to manipulate his features.

When he heard a crunch he jumped up to stare in the mirror; his eyes and mouth had started to change, huge canine teeth fixed strangely in his jaw. Yet as much as he focused, tried to make himself angry, he couldn't will himself further into the transformation. He let out an angry snarl, making a face at himself, but all that happened was his nose clicking. Muttering angrily, he relaxed, and watched as his face morphed back to normal. It was fascinating to observe; he practiced changing his face back and forth for a while. Then something occurred to him.

He imagined his body transforming, the feeling of power running through him, the running, the _flying… _he envisioned chasing something, anything. A sudden impulse made him turn and open in the window, breathing in sweet air as he tried to consider what was wrong, why he couldn't make himself into that form right now. Frustrated, he kicked the wall, then hopped away, muttering in pain and falling back onto the sofa, spotting John's laptop. Maybe that was why they hadn't gotten in touch again.

He opened the laptop and logged into John's blog, easily getting past the passwords. He checked; yes, the post about the case had been posted, with a very large amount of hits. Frowning, he leant back, staring at the screen, trying to work out what had gone wrong - when his phone beeped. Pushing the laptop aside, he snatched it up, and a wide grin spread over his face.

_Required for more tests. Please report to centre ASAP. Thank you._

()*()*()*()

The cab slid up and he stepped out, handing the man a tenner and telling him to keep the change. It wasn't that far away, anyway. He straightened his shoulders, looking up at the clean, shining building; no one would know what happened here. Stepping inside, he approached the desk. "Sherlock Holmes. Testing." he announced, and she gave him a wide smile, "Mr. Holmes, yes. Please head up to room 19." he nodded and stepped away, striding over to the lift.

His heart was pounding with excitement as he knocked on the door of the office and was called in. Across the desk sat a man he had never seen before. "Mr. Holmes." he said, and grinned, widely. Sherlock's eyes flickered over him, noting things; smart dressed, muscular, young, probably late twenties, no pets, no wife or children, work-a-holic but somehow… more energy than normal. Slicked back black hair to the nape of his neck. Yellow eyes; rather green with a very bright yellow spiral in the middle.

Then he took in the room; books, everywhere, but most of them looking untouched, just for display. No photographs; an expensive painting, original, a few thousand pounds at least. Solid mahogany desk, no mirrors, expensive carpet. Yes, this man was a high up. That was absorbed in the five seconds it took to sink into a plush mahogany chair opposite the man, folding his legs and resting cupped hands on top of his knees. "Nice to meet you, at last." the yellow-eyed man got to his feet, staring. "My name is of no interest, but you may call me Lazarus if you wish." he gave a short bark of laughter but Sherlock's face was emotionless. "I am what you are, sir, but much improved." he held out a hand and, in an instant, claws curved out.

"Minimal pain. No practice to transform. You have no idea the amount of deaths I have had to cause to get myself perfect. I don't have to spend time conditioning myself, like all those pitiful scientists below me. I just think it, and it happens." Sherlock was just watching him, eyes turning, not bothering to turn his whole head. When the man strode behind him, he went back to staring straight ahead.

"Dull." he announced, feeling the man freeze behind the chair. "All you science types, must insist on telling me about your brilliance." he sighed, and leant forward, unfolding his legs and up on his feet in a moment, turned to face 'Lazarus' over the top of the chair.

"You may consider yourself clever." the man's eyes had yellowed and were matched by Sherlock's, having shifted automatically. "However, I understand why you do this." Sherlock smiled at him, and could see the obvious discomfort. There came a quiet _click _in his spine. "A desperate need to prove yourself. You're lost. You need a partner. Let me guess; chemical reworking. You're older than you look, say, fifteen years. Why did you call me here?" Sherlock stared at him, clenching and unclenching his fists as pain rolled through them, nails dripping blood as they grew. He wondered if the transformation grew less painful with the _conditioning _that had been mentioned.

"We want you." the man announced, a syllabant hiss rolling with his letters, telling Sherlock how far the transformation had gone. He could see already that this 'easy transformation' the man boasted about was wrong. Any strong emotion would induce this change. Sherlock felt strangely pleased that only his eyes and teeth would change, it allowed him control, a limit… "We want you to work with us. Rather, I want you to work with me. We can manipulate the changes still. You'd be able to change, without pain. We could do as we want." the man gave a wide, sharp-toothed smile and Sherlock kept his face in it's emotionless state.

"No." he responded, softly. "I don't think I will." _crunch. _Audible this time, and he winced slightly. The scientist's eyes widened as he realised, and the next moment there was the sound of splitting fabric. The impulse to shift was too strong, and he'd started changing, and Sherlock saw that, though swifter than him by far, he had a minute or two to go. The roaring, snarling sounds of the creature he was becoming echoed in Sherlock's ears as he was running out the door, towards the stairs. Soon there was smashing noises, crunches and screams as people heard the beast that was thundering down the stairs behind him, and then - out into the lobby, running for the doors, then out into the street.

There was a moment of annoyance as he dropped to all fours, his face already half gone, making him unrecognisable; pain thundered through his body but he covered it with adrenaline. _Not again, not again… _he had to cling to his mind, as he felt his wings burst through, trying not to let the rest of his body shift. He had to be fast, powerful. There were muscles there that hadn't been previously and he leapt, took to the sky, feeling the air move behind him as the shifted man took flight in pursuit. _Scotland yard, Scotland yard… _the thought echoed in his head as he tilted, powering through, twisting, using his smaller form to enhance his manoeuvrability. But he was tiring, so quickly…

He was low, so close to the ground, only a few meters up; the air hard to move. He knew the dragon behind him was getting closer, and every part of his body was screaming at him to finish the transformation, take that form, but he couldn't, not now… he hadn't brought his coat for a reason. He didn't want to risk it. He regretted the shoes as they split away from his taloned feet, but once again, it had been a risk he expected, hence them being old. Panting like crazy, he let out a roar, seeing the turning triangular sign; then he folded his wings, twisting. He landed on his back, hard, feeling his scales come in a second too late over raw skin. Then the dragon was on him, such a dark purple that he looked almost black, but iridescent.

One kick, straight into the stomach; like a cat. His front clawed hands fought hard, pushing the face away from him, those deadly teeth; another kick. His claws locked under the scales, ripping them away, blood dousing his body. The third kick ripped open the other dragon's stomach and he roared, rolling, pinning them. He was three quarters transformed, clinging to half a face, panting and whining. Lestrade appeared, along with a huge crowd, police, animal control, everything; crowds in the street. His tail twitched as he stared at Lestrade, tears running down his half-snout. "Arrest him!" he managed to shout out. The body was turning human again, but still alive, as the flesh knitted in front of them. Lestrade wouldn't approach, but his mouth was wide open, recognising the voice.

He saw Lestrade mouth his name and let out a low whine before he turned, crunching the last part of the transformation, the crowd parting with a cry of panic. His wings snapped open as he took to the sky, and an astonished Lestrade managed to get a grip, cuffing the panicking, babbling scientist, staring at the horrifying wound already repairing itself. Then he stared at the vanishing form of the red and gold dragon, just as cameras arrived, missing all the action.

He could've sworn that that dragon was wearing a dark blue scarf, just wrapped around it's neck.


	11. Epilogue

COLD HEART - Epilogue

_I hope you've enjoyed it. Please, PLEASE review. I want to know if you're interested in my progressing, maybe adding some things, I have ideas for Dragon!Lock post Reichenbach…_

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine, John. Please stop fussing."

Sherlock and John were sat back at the flat, and it was late in the evening. Lestrade sat on the single chair, opposite Sherlock and John on the sofa; John had just come home and been told everything, as had Lestrade, who had been sworn to secrecy. "We're going to tell people that it was a group hallucination." he informed them. "After what I've been told, I just…" he closed his eyes and rubbed them. "Your 'Lazarus' turned out to be Professor Alfie Jeffrey. An American. He's been deported, for what he's done, and he's on death row." Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes and leaning back into the sofa.

After Lestrade had gone, John stared at Sherlock. "Are you-"

"I am FINE!" he snapped, frowning, and John smiled back at him.

"So what happened… with the blood in the sink at the women's house? That was too fresh to be a transformation, surely?" Sherlock nodded quietly to John's question, getting to his feet and moving to the window, peeking out.

"They had a gentleman stay over the night before." he informed John. "He cut himself shaving and went to the shops. That was why her homeless sister was there." he continued staring out the window.

"You said he wanted you alive. Then why were you shot?" John still looked pale at the thought of what Sherlock had done. He'd had to carefully treat the horrible grazes on Sherlock's back.

"That wasn't our American Lazarus." Sherlock said, turning around. "Just as I expected." John didn't ask for an explanation, because he could already hear the cars outside.

Mycroft didn't knock, striding straight in. Sherlock looked at him. "Why did you have me shot?" there was a low rage that John hadn't heard in his voice before. Mycroft just looked vaguely amused.

"I had to find out the problem, dear brother. I also hoped to incapacitate you, as I believed you were interfering with something out of your depth. Unfortunately, you were not-"

"MYCROFT! Don't lie to me!" Sherlock's roar made both of them jump.

"Alright, brother dear." he gave a dark scowl. "I needed your blood, to know what had been done to you. I _did _need you incapacitated. We knew that there was unlawful testing happening, but we did not know to what degree. Are you happy now?" Sherlock's eyes had become draconic, and John noticed he was shaking slightly, black claws on his hands. "And I assure you, Sherlock." his brother twirled that umbrella. "If you prove a threat to this country, we will annihilate you. Goodnight." he walked away. John watched the trembling Sherlock for a few moments, as the black-haired man strode into his room.

He emerged in his pyjama bottom and John stared at him. "I'll be back later. Leave the door open." he told John, then disappeared up the stairs. There was a distant door noise; then John heard a roar, fading into the distance, accompanied by the beating of huge wings.

_The End?_

_Yeah please review guys, really want to know what you think!_


End file.
